


Deprecation.

by Memoriam



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bondage, F/M, Gore, Horror, Nightmares, Rape, Restraint, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-05
Updated: 2007-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lies we tell ourselves are often the most dangerous.</p><p>Violence, gore, rape, bondage, imagery, themes... This story is thoroughly inappropriate for anyone under the age of majority, the faint of heart, or the weak of stomach. No profanity, though!  Written for the <a href="http://shanaqui.livejournal.com/515822.html?thread=2564078#t2564078">anonymous kink meme.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Deprecation.

Sometimes, Tifa thought, there were certain benefits to falling into a routine, no matter how awkward or ungainly it might be.

 

Take this, for example: Vincent had never, from the very first night he'd joined them, slept anywhere near the rest of the group. Even when they were outdoors, and the looming shadows inclined even the bravest of them towards huddling around the campfire, he would steal off into the darkness on his own, nestling himself away into some lost hollow that somehow brought him comfort. Sometimes he'd even wander so far as to be out of earshot, and they'd have to leave without him, but he always followed their back trail, turning up an hour or two into the day's journey without a word of explanation.

 

It had frustrated them all on more than one occasion; who knew what sort of trouble he might fall prey to? Who knew if today was the day he'd decided to disappear for good, leaving them to their own devices? Who knew if he wasn't sneaking off to liaise with his former employers, landing them all in the soup that much more quickly?

 

She did, now. She still was not entirely clear on the reasons for his preferences, but she knew enough to respect them for what they were; and now, when they were so easy to turn to her own advantage, she couldn't summon much of a grudge for them.

 

It wasn't fair, she told herself as she carefully picked her way through the forest, relying on every trick she'd ever learned from Zangan to keep from making a sound; it wasn't fair, not to either of them, and most certainly not to him. There was no shame to it; no reason why the others shouldn't know, no reason she should be afraid to acknowledge it, no reason to hide him like a guilty secret.

 

But she was, and she did.

 

He didn't seem to mind; if nothing else, he agreed with her reasoning. As childish and melodramatic as all the sneaking around might be, they all had far more pressing issues to worry about than emotional peccadilloes, and given the complexities of their personal situations—of _her _personal situation—it was best to let it lie; there was no need to sap the group's focus with jealousy and unhappiness. And even if they _were _to come out in the open about it, what would it really change? Would they share sleep amongst the whole crowd—in front of Yuffie? Even if they remained entirely chaste about it, it would be... awkward.

 

She bit her lip as she eased her way across a dead fall, her own turmoil stealing her focus enough that she nearly gouged her thigh on a protruding branch. It wasn't just that, and it wasn't something she could ignore, if she ever truly hoped to come to terms with it... and she was growing fond enough of Vincent that she really, really, needed to.

 

It wasn't that she was trying to play them off against each other, it really, really, _wasn't_; her fear of conflict was largely what had led them into this situation. She did not expect Cloud to be entirely pleased with the decision she'd made, but that wasn't what she was truly afraid of; he might feel hurt, angry, betrayed, but he was a good enough soul that he wouldn't let it tax him, or them, too badly; a few tense days, certainly, but it would all sort itself out eventually.

 

No, it had to be faced: she had a sickening hunch that Cloud wouldn't bat an eye. It wasn't that she _wanted _some dramatic, angst-ridden scene, far from it; it wasn't that she even necessarily wanted _him _any more, though she was less sure of that than she'd ever admit to. Yet the idea that he didn't care, wouldn't mind a bit that she'd moved on, was not something she was yet capable of facing.

 

_There. I'm a selfish, spoiled little girl who wants to have her cake and eat it too, and I need to grow up already._ And there it was: the tail of the seemingly insurmountable circular argument she'd been having with herself ceaselessly these past few weeks. It was ugly, it was cowardly, but it was absolutely true, and she couldn't flinch from it forever.

 

But Tifa was deeply into the woods now, and by the faint gleam of starlight she spied a clearing ahead, a huge, jutting outcropping of stone slumped over its far end; it was quite likely... yes, there it was. Vincent's ragged red cloak streamed like the tattered flag of a defeated army from the branch he'd hung it on, the one concession he'd make to help her on the nights she chose to seek him out. She smiled as she made her way towards it; as strange as it was, even that had become endearing. She used to find him curled into his bedroll, the cloak pulled in after him as if it were a cork, a shield between him and the rest of the world; nowadays it always fluttered invitingly near wherever he'd chosen to hole up, perhaps the only welcome he could offer her.

 

It was enough.

 

She found him at the base of the tree beneath it, rather than wedged under the precipice as she'd expected; she could not yet fathom what exactly drove him to seek his shelters, but security and enclosure were usually paramount. Perhaps this, too, was a concession, an attempt to make himself available: even in sleep he seemed relaxed, stretched out full length on his side beneath the branches, not the coiled tangle of limbs she usually encountered. Even the zipper of his sleeping bad was slightly undone, the lips hanging open rather than wound around his typically hunched shoulders.

 

Tifa crouched beside him, struck by the gnawing intimacy of the tableau: she felt almost as if she were trespassing, snooping on a private moment of ease. She seriously debated making her way back to camp and leaving him to his rest; he slept so seldom as it was, and never this soundly, in her experience. But it was so tempting; he looked so sweet and peaceful... she reached out, almost without realizing it, to brush a few strands of his wispy black hair from his forehead, and his utter lack of response decided her.

 

The zipper parted with a soft metallic purr, and she carefully peeled back the upper section, moving as slowly and deftly as she could manage, for fear of disturbing him. He lay on his left side, still mostly dressed, arm splayed beneath him, the moonlight glinting dully on the brassy metal of his prosthesis. That was a help as well; the only reason sharing a sleeping bag worked was because she could lay on it without causing him discomfort. Kicking off her shoes, she cautiously eased her way in beside him; when that too failed to provoke a response, she began the tricky business of zipping the bag back up.

 

She had almost managed it when Vincent finally stirred; she froze at his indistinct grunt, distressed at having awoken him, but he merely wrapped his right arm around her midsection, pulling her close. “Are you awake?” she whispered.

 

He mumbled something, and mouthed the back of her neck; she felt a sudden thrill of interest at the caress, but he just as quickly sagged against her, molding his seemingly boneless form to hers. She smiled, then, realizing that he was still dead asleep, and quickly sealed the rest of the bag before snuggling into his embrace, reveling in his slightly musty warmth. While she wouldn't have minded a little more coherent attention, this was as much of a gift as her view of his calm, untroubled sleep: the fact that he'd reach out for her, curl himself around her, share himself with her even when he was genuinely unconscious of doing so... that had to be progress.

 

She yawned as she wriggled herself into position for sleep, firmly reminding herself that she needed to be up with the dawn; that would give her plenty to get back to camp before anyone noticed her absence. Dishonest, sure... but nights like these, with the firm comfort of his body beside her, were worth far more than a little prevarication to her.

 

The trek to find him had invigorated her, but the steady, soporific hum of his breathing and the pleasant, enveloping warmth of their bodies in the bedroll soon had their effect. She blinked sleepily at the night sky, even the sight of clouds rolling in unable to disturb her deep-rooted sense of well-being; the last thing she remembered was the muddy maroon of Vincent's cloak, flapping in the steadily rising breeze, its tattered hem nearly close enough to brush their faces.

 

* * *

 

Dripping.

 

Drip. Drip.

 

Drip.

 

It must have started raining, Tifa thought to herself; but no, that couldn't be, for she was indoors, wasn't she? She looked around to reassure herself and, indeed, she was... still?... in the basement; even if it were raining, it couldn't trouble her down here. Was something leaking? Had the pipes burst again?

 

She braced her palms against the gritty, sweating brick wall behind her and slowly levered herself to her feet, taking a moment to reacquaint herself with her surroundings; little good that it did her, for the only illumination in the small room came from a weak light bulb strung from the cobwebbed rafters. The room was crowded with massive, indistinct shapes swathed in tarps, fine furniture stored away for later use... but the floor beneath her feet was simple oiled dirt, not the sort of thing you'd rest such treasures on, its slickness seeping into the pink zori that protected her feet. She looked down in wonderment at the well-worn shoes, lost years ago on a trip to the lake, and she knew then that she was dreaming.

 

It puzzled her. Though she could not have said so if she had been asked, Tifa had long been a lucid dreamer; on the rare occasions phantasms haunted her sleep, they were almost invariably memories, opportunities to see life experiences replayed, or played out differently. But this was something else again; she could remember nothing like this, had never been in this place. It could not even be said to be the apotheosis of basements, a distillation of her collective experiences; it was too distinct, too grounded.

 

_Had _the pipes burst again?

 

Shaking her head at the strange persistence of the question, she began to carefully pick her way through the shrouded furniture; if nothing else, there was nothing for her here. The cobwebs cast long, dripping shadows over the dusty white sheets that seemed to scintillate as she slunk between them, twisting her hips to slither between them without touching. She didn't want to do that.

 

But there was a warped plywood door set in a rough-hewn frame of broken bricks, and though the heavy brass padlock adorning it looked intimidating, oxidized and crawling with rust, it fell away at her touch, as such things did. The door swung open easily at her touch and she stepped through, nearly tripping on the raised cement pad that served as the next room's floor. Her sandals squelched unpleasantly on her feet as she turned to contemplate her new surroundings.

 

Her father's workshop, she knew, though he'd never actually possessed anything so large and fine as this in life. But no, she realized as she looked more closely, this wasn't fine at all; it was barely habitable. She blinked, wondering if she had somehow misunderstood, or if it had changed.

 

The walls were stacked, jagged stones, indifferently mortared together, giving them a slapdash, cobbled look; they were braced at uneven intervals by massive, splintered timbers that looked unequal to the task of supporting the structure. Wedged in between, wherever they would fit, were an inconstant collection of grimy, stained work tables and benches, crammed and cluttered with an incomprehensible variety of tools and implements, most seeming to be half-eaten with rust and slathered with... something. Something thick and dark.

 

The center of the room was the same, an island supporting the reciprocating saw, the router, and the other tools meant for large work, carefully illuminated by the orange work lights hung directly over it, but as she approached it, drawn by its familiarity, she realized that that wasn't so, either. The island was still there, still picked out by stark overhead light, but there were no heavy machine tools on it; it was a raised, narrow bed, framed in stainless steel. But it wasn't just a bed, she saw as she picked uncertainly at the filthy, yellowed linen that clothed it, it was some sort of... it reminded her of visits to the gynecologist's, but that wasn't quite it, either; the lower half split, not into stirrups, but...

 

The heavy leather straps gleamed wetly under the lights.

 

The incessant sound of dripping seemed as loud as a trip-hammer, her mouth as dry as cotton batting as the unease within her mounted. This wasn't her father's workshop, wasn't anything she'd ever known; it was the basement of the Shinra Mansion, some secret, unexplored place deep in its bowels that they had not stumbled through when they had met Vincent, (though it might have been just the next room over, she knew with sickening certainty, might just well have been), and it was no place she wanted anything to do with.

 

Tifa spun on her heel, nearly slipping as her spongy, wet sandals failed to find purchase on the cracked cement floor. She would leave; she would walk out; there was nothing keeping her here, no reason to stay. But the long, narrow room suddenly seemed much longer than it had been, yawning back into cavernous darkness beyond the pool of light from the bed, and the only thing she could easily make out were the jutting ranks of (weapons) tools that bristled from the benches.

 

So be it. She placed one foot in front of the other, fists raised and gazing about herself warily all the while. Nothing here could hurt her; nothing that couldn't take her unawares, anyway, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Her zori made fleshy, squelching sounds as she cautiously made her way forward, and she wondered if the muddy, sucking feeling was merely due to the shoes disintegrating. She didn't look down to find out; it didn't matter. If this was the Shinra Mansion...

 

Clinking.

 

Clink. Clink.

 

Tink.

 

Had she thought she'd been hearing dripping all this while? She'd been wrong; it wasn't dripping, not spilling liquid, but the ceaseless clangor of metal being struck lightly... beaten against something, perhaps, being dragged, something... something she didn't need to concern herself with.

 

Was it the pipes rattling?

 

It didn't matter. If this was the Shinra Mansion, she was in Nibelheim. That meant that all she needed to do was go upstairs...

 

She flinched back as something brushed against her face, reaching up to bat frantically at whatever clung to her, but it fell away easily. The tables and shelves here were shrouded, as the previous room had been, but the great white sheets had been dispensed with here; ragged swathes of rotten, greasy material hung from the walls, torn scraps, shredded fabric, hanging wherever it might be snagged. Tarps, mostly, but there were a few pieces recognizable as tablecloths, blankets... a shirt dangled lifelessly from what might have been a rake. She looked up at the piece she had just walked into, and saw with little surprise that it was a suit jacket, speared on a pitchfork through one lapel. She fingered it, wondering; it had been a lovely item, once, deep blue and pinstriped, soft and crisply tailored... but it wasn't anymore, she learned as her fingers found the dry, crusty stain that obliterated its front. No, no, no, not at all.

 

Releasing it with a small cry of revulsion, she quickened her pace down the seemingly endless room, fists clenched before her so hard her nails (when had they gotten so long?) bit into her palms. She was still on her guard, but more consumed with speed. If she was in Nibelheim, all she needed to do was go upstairs and get outside; then she could...

 

A sharp clatter sliced through her hopeful train of thought.

 

Right behind her.

 

Tink.

 

Tink tink tink.

 

Clink.

 

She froze, sinking instinctively into a chocobo stance, from which she could leap easily in any direction. It might have been an accident, some mysterious piece of junk finally losing its moorings and tumbling to the floor, but she knew it wasn't; knew just as surely that she'd give anything not to have to turn around and confront it.

 

If she could get upstairs, she could go outside and go to her parents' house. Her father would be there...

 

(her father was dead)

 

...perhaps even her mother...

 

(dead too, dead dust and bones)

 

...and it would be so nice to see them, so sunny and bright...

 

(as bright as the fire that had taken it all)

 

...they might scold her for neglecting the piano, but it would be nothing compared to...

 

(all dead all gone all as if they never were)

 

...it would be so nice to see them...

 

(still dead, still waiting, still wanting her)

 

...she missed them so much...

 

(they waited and waited and waited still for her)

 

...and perhaps, if she could get past this thing, this clanking, clattering menace, none of it would be so; no one dead, nothing scourged, just the pleasant idyll she recalled from her childhood. She straightened, the taste of strawberry tarts on her tongue, and turned to see what laid in wait for her.

 

It had been there all along, she realized as soon as she laid eyes on it, she had simply failed to see it; had perhaps even brushed against it as she had crept along the walls. Too tall to be real, its spine hunched into a serpentine curve, it was passionately busy with something on the bench before it, something its elongated torso hid from her sight; the source of the (dripping) clinking. Her eyes swam, seeing what was, or what could be, things she could barely stand to see: it was naked, crouched, shivering and wretched; it stood at the bench, tapping and clicking, swathed in a long drape of moldering crimson. Long, long, far too long to match its real-world counterpart, but it had somehow managed to take Vincent's cloak from him. He would be so bereft.

 

Its elbows poked out at its sides, spavined and knobby, the flesh gray and cracked. It stooped so profoundly she could not see its head at all, and that was fine, that was a good thing. You weren't supposed to look at it, weren't ever, ever, supposed to see it, and she was in terrible danger from it. Its face clattered. Its face _had _clattered.

 

It turned suddenly, its left arm flicking out faster than thought; she did not see its movement, but instead the shower of golden glints that fell from it. Treasure, then, a pot of gil for the girl brave enough to beard it in its lair, just like a fairy story... but neither gil nor gold coins rang like that as they struck the ground, a high, teeth-chattering whine like a wet finger around a glass rim. Bracelets, she thought, seeing one of them land almost flat, rotating on its rim until it settled to a halt; but it shook its hand again, and a rain of hooked triangles fell after it, and she knew that it had stolen Vincent's arm as well, stolen it and dissected it. Whatever would he do without it?

 

It flexed the fingers of its left hand, pumped them in and out as it raised the hand to its mercifully shadowed face, as if it to admire the job it had done. She didn't want to see this; this was private. But as if her realization had drawn its notice, it slowly turned its gaze back to the wall.

 

“It wasn't supposed to go like this,” it said. Its voice was dry and hoarse, indistinct and muffled, barely discernible; she more _understood _what it had said, rather than heard it. She saw then that it wore pants, too, rucked up high over its narrow, veiny shins; dark navy, elegantly pinstriped, though rather ragged at the cuffs.

 

“I found your jacket,” she told it brightly, suddenly realizing what she must do. She would trade it its coat for Vincent's cloak, and it would be happy; it would let her gather up the scattered pieces of Vincent's arm, and she could take them both back to him, and he would be happy. Perhaps they could go and visit her parents together; her father, at least, would surely want a look at him.

 

She paused, waiting hopefully for it to accede, but it said nothing, and the mounting suspicion that it didn't want its jacket at all, that she had just done something terribly, terribly wrong crystallized when it spoke again. “It _wasn't _supposed to _go _like this!” it keened, its knees buckling as it wrapped its inhumanly long arms around its head, and Tifa had had quite enough of this, _more _than enough. She whirled around and ran, ran ran _ran_, but it was _on _her, had leapt for her before she'd even thought to turn; she fell roughly, tangled in its spindly limbs, its ragged, wispy breath ice cold on her face, but she wouldn't look, she _wouldn't_\--

 

“You  
still don't understand,” it gurgled, and it was laughing, _laughing _at how stupid and weak and foolish she was. She struggled wildly, trying to throw it off, but it was like boxing with cattails, drifting and insubstantial. She wanted to bounce to her feet with easy, mechanical grace, unleash a fusillade of kicks and punches to break its scrawny arms and legs with, but she couldn't: she hadn't met Zangan yet, he'd never bothered to teach her anything, and he was dead too, far out of her reach for help; all she could do was shove weakly as it hauled her upright by the front of her shirt.

 

Its thin, spidery fingers encircled her throat, long enough to wrap around, and it chuckled smokily as she flinched away from its frozen touch, squeezing her eyes shut. “You still don't _get _it.” It shook her roughly. “Poor, _poor _you,” it crooned, and its tone was so thick with disdain, so full of disgusted, secret _knowing_ that she couldn't resist a frightened whimper.

 

It snarled at the sound, and its fingers bit into the soft flesh of her throat like icy wires. She gasped, gagging, and reached up to try to pry its punishing grip from her neck, but her fingers only scrabbled uselessly, her nails rending dead, dry flesh from its hand. It clamped down all the harder, and she could no longer even do that; her arms dropped to her sides, twitching feebly as she focused on the thin, whistling breaths razoring in and out of her lungs, not enough, nowhere near enough. Spots danced before her eyelids and she wanted to cry, wanted to _scream_, but she could do nothing but kick her feet; it choked the breath from her, the air, the _life._ All of it gone, gone, gone; she'd join the others, soon, everyone she'd known and loved, everyone who waited and waited and waited for her... but she wanted to see, first, to know what had done this to her.

 

If it was death to look upon it, she had nothing more to fear by opening her eyes.

 

But even that surcease was denied her, for it still hid its evil, basilisk countenance behind wrappings, torn and filthy, crusted and stained with fluids she could not bear to bring herself to contemplate even in this extremity. Only its eyes were visible, scarlet and staring mad with knowledge nothing living could bear; she thought it grinned, pleased at her distress, for she saw the gleam of teeth behind its bandages.

 

It dropped her.

 

She collapsed to the floor as if her tendons had been cut, unable to so much as put her arms out to break her fall, and hit the greasy cement with a meaty thud. She barely noticed, so caught up was she in sucking down deep, painful lungfuls of air; that simple _breathing _could be such a luxury was an idea she had never entertained, but she reveled in it now, the end of pain and dying almost more bliss than she could encompass.

 

Scritch.

 

Scritch scritch.

 

_Scritch._

 

It crouched beside her, its knees bent far above its head, its face hidden in the shadows of its own shoulders. The great scarlet cloak pooled around it, its trousers loose on its legs; cerements adornments for the grave it had rejected. It scratched the floor before it, digging grooves of powdered rock with its yellowed, broken nails. “We still believe that people are essentially good, don't we?” it snickered, seeming intent on its mindless task, as if it spoke to itself.

 

She knew this was important, knew its words were meant for her, and she coughed, choking on the breathless words she tried to get out. “Whuh--” she tried, her voice rattling in her abused throat; she coughed again, licked her lips. “Why--”

 

“Time to learn different.” It flowed to its feet and seized her by the scruff of her neck, dragging her back the way she'd worked so hard to come, and she submitted to a strangled cry, a hopeless, helpless wail of protest; but that was silly, that was _stupid_, that wasn't going to get her anywhere. She reached up to scratch at its arm, trying to hurt it, trying to make it _stop_, but its other hand encircled her wrists like an iron band, holding her fast.

 

It lurched rapidly along, shuffling and stumbling, her flailing legs banging off furniture as it jerked her along behind it; she didn't know what it was doing or where it could be taking her, but she absolutely did not want to find out. It was going to give her no choice but to find out, and her question was unfortunately answered when it hauled her up by her wrists, so hard she thought her arms must rip from their sockets, and slammed her brutally down on a padded surface.

 

The bed. Oh, God, the _bed._

 

She screamed so hard her back arched with the force of it, writhing and kicking, trying to yank her hands free of its viselike grip, but it would have none of it. Its hands seemed to be everywhere, holding her down, shoving her roughly back into place wherever she managed to wriggle free as it whipped the straps over her body, binding her with implacable authority. They seemed to sink into her flesh, feverishly warm with an animal heat; her neck, her collarbone, her ribs, her waist, her hips, each thigh, each knee, each ankle, she couldn't get away, couldn't strain free, everywhere, _everywhere. _She moaned despairingly, bunching her muscles as hard as she could, but if anything it only made the straps pull tighter; and it was touching her, handling her, _its hands were all over her--_

 

It stopped.

 

She was secured. Immobile. Frozen. Bound. Completely, utterly helpless.

 

The futility of her situation drifted over her like a poisoned soporific; peace in the face of complete and total subjugation. It was out of sight, but she could feel it looming over her, inspecting, appreciating its handiwork. She could do nothing about this. She could not free herself. Could not fight it. Could not protect herself. She would endure. She would survive; or not. It was all the same now, all a matter of this gruesome creature's whim. She would be still.

 

Rasp.

 

Rasp rasp.

 

Rasp.

 

_Raaaaasp._

 

Tifa whimpered despite herself.

 

It moved gawkishly around her, picking up various implements from the tables along the walls; examining, rejecting most, tossing them back down or over its shoulder, stabbing a few selected pieces through the fabric of Vincent's cloak for safekeeping. It muttered to itself, barely verbal, deeply enrapt in the selection process. She quailed. She was in a hospital bed; everyone knew what happened in hospitals.

 

Surgery.

 

It turned back to her, drawing itself to its full height for the first time, arms wrapped around its narrow chest; its bandaged head nearly brushed the ceiling. It stooped suddenly, folding itself nearly double to inspect her more closely, and she couldn't repress the urge to throw herself against the straps, trying even now to fling herself as far away from it as she could. Its head moved slowly and carefully up and down her body, calculating, considering, and its frozen breath burned her skin.

 

She sucked her belly in as far as she could, trying to draw away, and it gave a snuffling laugh. “Even now,” it grated. “Even now.”

 

“I'll go away,” she whispered, the broken pleading of a frightened little girl. Hopeless and useless, trying to negotiate with it when she was so thoroughly in its power, but it was her only chance. “You don't have to do this. I'll just—I'll go away.” Even the burning and the bodies would be better than this; anything,  
anything at all.

 

“So sweet.” It straightened abruptly, fidgeting with something grim and threatening in its impossible hands.

 

“I won't tell anyone,” she assured it, praying it would believe her, fighting to keep the trembling out of her voice. “I won't _tell_ anyone, I'll just—I'll just _go._”

 

It threw back its head, and she thought it would laugh again, amused by the helpless futility of her promises; but it stayed frozen, contorted backwards, caught in some private rictus, inhuman and alien. Was it thinking over her words? Was it listening?

 

The dull, jagged teeth of the saw blade dug into her stomach, not quite piercing flesh—not yet.

 

She knew she was lost; and with that knowledge came another wash of soothing apathy. Fine, then; let it do as it would. She could not stop it. Her eyes drifted closed, and she waited an endless moment for it to have its way with her.

 

“No.” She nearly opened her eyes when she felt the blade withdraw, but did not bother when she realized it was simply dissatisfied with its chosen implement. “No, that's not _good _enough!” It clattered to the floor with a muted jangle, and was followed by a heavy crash as it vented its frustration on some nearby table. “You were doing so well, you were _almost there!_” it howled. “Isn't this _enough?_ What does it _take?” _There was a prolonged, tearing screech of metal.

 

It didn't matter. It was all distant now. It would be as it would.

 

“You just. Won't. _See_,” it gibbered, its furious, hateful voice more of a horror than any she'd yet seen. Then it laughed, splintered bone on copper pipes, a rising, obscene giggle. “No,” it sputtered with sick hilarity, “no, but you will.”

 

And even though her eyes were closed, even though she could hear nothing, she knew what it was doing, and she didn't mind; it was better to look death in the eye, surely, than to let it take her to pieces unresisting. With a weary, burdensome sense of predestination, she opened her eyes.

 

It stood at the foot of the bed now, its fingers digging into its own throat, shreds of flesh or particles of rotten gauze flaking down from its labors until with a final sickening rip it drew its hands away, long, pendulous streamers of fluid depending from its fingers. It tilted its head, studying her exhausted lack of reaction, and flicked its fingers; the thick ropy gobbets spattered her legs with a burning sizzle, but even that was not enough to bestir her. She knew there was more yet to come.

 

It seemed to share her desire to get on with it; leaning forward in the same serpentine twist no mortal spine could have borne, it reached behind its head to paw awkwardly at the bindings shrouding its face. Its hands came away with a thick, fleshy tearing sound, a stained bandage end in each. Its head stayed lowered, and Tifa watched in tired resignation as it began to unwind itself, peeling the sticky, ruined wrappings from its face with agonizing slowness. Soon. It would be done soon.

 

Soon. Please.

 

“_Soon enough?”_ She did not know if she had spoken aloud or if had somehow understood her unspoken plea, the hopeful cry of exhausted prey, but it was suddenly _over _her, leaning at an impossible slanted angle. All she could see were its rheumy red eyes, the whites shattered with exploded blood vessels, but then... oh, but _then_...

 

If it grinned, it was only because it could do nothing else; its lips were _gone_, withered away into the gray, sere flesh of its countenance, and its black gums had receded so far the lower portion of its seemed nothing more than an endless, aching expanse of yellowed ivory. The rest of its... she supposed it must be called a face... was little more than a tortured map of grooved, excoriated hide; a portrait to make a coroner retreat in fear. This thing, this monster, had always been terrible; but it had not always been such a horror as she confronted now. Nothing could be.

 

She did not die.

 

It withdrew too quickly for the eye to follow, bracing its hands on either side of her hips, still leaning over her; it cocked its head this way and that, perhaps to consider her, perhaps merely to afford her a better view of the revolting visage it had uncovered for her. Unencumbered by the bandages, its breathing was a shallow, rapid harshness whistling through its clenched teeth that sawed at her nerves as painfully as its blade might have done.

 

She did not die, and it seemed as surprised as she.

 

She let her head loll back; the restraints kept her from removing it from her field of vision, but far enough that it did not seem quite so all encompassing. The shock of its face had sent her mind reeling, but that warred with the unexpected revelation of its impotency. Insane, furious, and dangerous as it might be, it was not so dreadful that it could kill with a mere look; and that was the secret, she realized, that was the trick, that was... that was...

 

It gave a rippling shriek of rage, slamming its twisted fists down on either side of her, and Tifa's breath caught in her throat, the cowering, exhilarating terror returning full force for a handful of heartbeats as it wrenched the bed apart; her hips groaned, aching with tension as her legs were spread almost impossibly far... then stopped with a snap as the segments reached the end of their extension. It moved; she'd forgotten; it _moved_.

 

It stood between her thighs now, the foul mess it had made of Vincent's cloak pooling over her like a bloody oil slick, but she remained placid and unfocused beneath its hateful, burning gaze. It hated her to the very marrow of its dessicated bones, the implacable loathing of the damned, but... but only... She felt the answer flickering just out of her grasp, strove for it, struggled to make sense of the nagging surety that held her still, but could not.

 

Its eyes. Its eyes were a horror to more than match the rest of its gruesome appearance, mad with an unspeakable, unbearable truth; and that was the secret, she realized suddenly, that was what she needed to know.

 

It despised her so only because she did not hate it as much as it loathed itself.

 

Frightened, angry, unhappy, yes; but she could not muster true antipathy for a creature as broken and twisted as this one had become, any more than she could for a rabid dog. Under other circumstances, she might have pitied it.

 

It knew that; had known it all along, perhaps, but became inescapably aware of it as soon as she did, and it could not stand the knowledge. With a guttural howl it sank to its haunches, long, ungainly arms wrapped around its head, and for the first time Tifa strained uselessly against her bonds, throwing her body violently against the heavy leather straps. Its voice was full of ceaseless, inhuman anguish, an ululating wail of loss and realization that scourged her soul with raw, suppurating wretchedness, and she could not bear it; its pain and rue were beyond hearing, beyond bearing, beyond _sanity._ She would have done anything to quiet it; would have hugged it, petted it, soothed away its hurts despite those it had inflicted upon her, anything, anything at all simply to make it _stop._

 

And perhaps it knew that, too, for it ceased its cry, its ruined voice subsiding into rasping, sobbing gasps. She breathed a sigh of relief, her thoughts scattered so wildly that she could not make sense of it, what had happened, why, why, why; barely registered it as unusual when she felt the dry, wrinkled scrabbling across her legs. Anything. Anything at all, anything but the resumption of its excruciating mourning.

 

Had she been naked all this while? Surely she had been clothed, for she still was, wasn't she? But she was exposed now, somehow, open and vulnerable, and its breath was frosty on the downy flesh of her upper thighs. Its broken, jagged nails drew trails of gooseflesh along her skin, and her hands balled into fists without her volition. She couldn't see it, wouldn't even try to raise her head high enough to do so, but she could still hear its strained breathing, each panting exhalation half a cry as it clutched awkwardly at her hips with trembling, scabrous palms.

 

Anything. Anything at all. It couldn't be worse.

 

Its mouth was as hot as its breath was cold, and her body went rigid with the shock of mingled sensations as its tongue sloppily parted her labia. She tried to kick, to writhe away from its invasive caress, but the feverish leather held her fast as it clumsily explored her folds. A scream was locked behind her teeth, but she wouldn't fail herself by letting it escape. It couldn't last forever; she'd be free of it, or it would finish her. It would end.

 

She lurched again as its tongue penetrated her, meaty and muscular; she clenched her teeth so hard her jaws ached as it worked itself in and out, rhythmic and inescapable. All she knew was the fluid slide of flesh, warm, wet and deep inside of her as it increased its efforts, faster, harder, faster, so slippery and mechanical...

 

She couldn't restrain a gasp as it withdrew, lashing its tongue free of her confines, and she shivered at the sudden loss of sensation that had seemed ubiquitous. A few moments of silence, long enough for her to wonder if it had finally ceased, though it still gripped her hips tightly; she should not have been so foolish.

 

But its next touch was cautious, even delicate; the tip of its flexible tongue carefully circled her hood, and she could not deny the deep flutter of answering pleasure in her groin. She sagged uselessly against her bonds as it lapped softly at her clitoris, gentle and consistent. This was too much; terror and abuse she could stand from it, had come to expect, but its sudden concern and deftness were overwhelming, too much for her exhausted mind to make sense of. She squeezed her eyes shut once more, grasping desperately for the soothing, chilling apathy that had shielded her from its attentions before, but was unable to seize it in the steadily building onslaught of sensation it forced upon her.

 

Was that what it wanted? Was this only another weapon in its arsenal, brought out when its other attempts failed? The burgeoning feeling of intensity being fanned into embers between her thighs, spreading slow, warm tendrils of expectant tension between her hips, made it hard to focus, hard to think; she ceased trying, once more abandoning herself to experience. She roughly forced the details of the situation from her mind and melted into pure sensation, that languorous enervation that nevertheless coiled throughout her until every muscle was clenched with slithery bliss, tighter and tighter as her body grew closer to its inevitable conclusion.

 

She _did_ cry out as she came, a low, throaty moan that escaped without her knowledge as her form strained against the straps without her consent, her limbs twitching and shivering with the sheer animal pleasure of release and fulfillment. Her hips bucked involuntarily as she sought to milk those last few precious moments of heady, throbbing contact, her flesh greedily seeking what her mind would never consciously reach out for.

 

But it was over. She relaxed against the bed with a breathy sigh, her pulse pounding in her ears as she sought to regain her breath, to gain some control over the drunken whirl of satiation that scattered her thoughts.

 

It was still licking her.

 

She let it continue its self-imposed task unimpeded for a few more moments; it was not as if she could have stopped it anyway. But the incongruity of its actions was too dissonant, such a sharp discord it wormed its way into even her own muddled confusion.

 

“Why?” she asked it again.

 

It stopped, though its hands remained on her thighs, and barring that rough contact, it was as if she were alone for long enough that her mind began to wander. She was so drowsy, so spent; a nap would be so nice, if only because it would render her insensible.

 

Its palms pressed down on her as it rose to its full height, its grisly head lost in the unreliable shadows of the world beyond the work light. It stooped forward hesitantly, and she greatly wished it hadn't; its ruined excuse for a mouth was slick with her own juices, glistening wetly as it came into the light. But as her gaze skittered away in frightened revulsion, she caught sight of something even more deeply disturbing: another pair of twin gleams, at the corner of each of its deep set eyes.

 

It was crying.

 

That was the most terrible thing of all. _Now_ she screamed, a wild, panicked shout of rejection and denial; she flailed hysterically against the bonds with a frantic need to flee, to escape this horror, to run from the need to confront--

 

* * *

 

She kicked so hard the sleeping bag's zipper parted with a metallic rip, spilling her out into the damp pre-dawn chill, and she rolled onto her hands and knees with clumsy desperation. Her fingers dug into the moist loam beneath her, and the sensation was so unbelievable that she froze for a moment, absolutely unable to comprehend what was going on. She sucked in ragged, sobbing breaths as she peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of what lay before her: trees, stones, tall grass that waved in the wind.

 

At the slight sound behind her she spun around so quickly she fell, barking her tail bone painfully on a rock. Vincent had flowed to his feet instantly, a pistol materializing in his hand as if by sorcery, and stood scanning the night around them, seeming calmly and casually ready to take on all comers.

 

_Nightmare_, she thought wonderingly, raising a hand to her chest in the futile hope of staving off her panting. _Only a dream,_ she told herself, still shaky with the adrenalin flooding her system, but could scarcely make herself believe it. She did not dream like this; had never woken up screaming; had never fought or struggled in her sleep.

 

Until now.

 

“I'm sorry,” she gasped, reaching out to lay a hand on Vincent's bare foot. “I'm sorry, I—I must have heard something,” she finished lamely, for some reason mulishly unwilling to admit to what had just happened. It spun around her in wispy fragments now just barely out of the reach of her memory: darkness deep in the earth, rusty wet metal, and... and...

 

He raised the gun into a guard position beside his face, the only indication he gave that he had heard her as he continued to inspect their surroundings. Finally satisfied by the dearth of impending attack, he turned to look down at her and, though she could not have said why, a shiver ran through her as he reached up to wipe at his eyes.


End file.
